“Since I’ve met you, you’ve been on the defensive, and tonight, for the first time, you were different.” He takes his hand away from my leg, and I wish he wouldn’t.

“I’m not defensive,” I say, sounding defensive. “I’m just private. What’s wrong with that? I know putting the intimate details of your life on Facebook or whatever is all the rage right now, so pardon me.”

“Is that what you think I do?” He’s amused.

“Well, no, not you, just . . . people,” I say. What I want to say is women, women are expected to be vulnerable. When men are tough, we call them masculine, and when they’re vulnerable we practically throw them a fucking parade. But women are just expected to go around with our hearts hanging out like it’s the natural way of things.

“Can I tell you the real meaning of your nickname?”

I feel the blood draining from my face. I shrug, as if to say, you can’t hurt me, even though it’s clear to both of us that he can.

“It was this image that came to mind the first time I danced with you. I thought: this big, strong, beautiful girl will tear you to shreds if you try to get too close to her.”

I nod slowly. Am I insulted by this or kind of impressed with myself? I can’t decide. A tiger sounds like someone who could protect herself.

“And what was I tonight, a kitten?”

“No, Liz,” he says, “tonight you were a woman.”

I want to blow it off, but how can I? Tonight was the first time I have felt human in so long.

“And what about you?” I say, letting myself smile. “What animal are you?”

He laughs. “I don’t know, an aging stallion?”

“You still strut like a prize stud.”

“The important thing is that I still have my balls, Liz. I haven’t let the world make a gelding of me.”

“Have a thing for horses then?” I say.

He shrugs. “I grew up around them,” he says. “My father owned an estancia in Chascomús.”

I wouldn’t have pegged him as having grown up a rich kid. But the estancias, as least as I understand them, are fancy, like the vast ranches in Montana or Wyoming not far from where I grew up. This is definitely true of the ones that are as close to Buenos Aires as Chascomús.

“You know I’ve heard some pretty colorful stories about you,” I say.

“I’m sure. Do tell.”